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CHAPTER
1: BEGINNING MY JOURNEY
For 33 years I kept the dilapidated cardboard box
the military sent to me after Bruce was killed in Vietnam. It
contained personal items of clothing, his dog tags, letters I
wrote to him, the Bible I gave him for his 18th birthday, his
wedding ring and his Zodiac watch that looked like it had been
shot off his arm. Other numerous items included the silver necklace
he wore with St. Christopher on one side and the Marine insignia
on the other. It was the one we placed between our lips as we
kissed good-bye.
These items confirmed that Bruce was dead.
For a long time I left the withering container unattended
in the basement of my parents’ home. Sometimes I would quietly
slip away and go down the narrow wooden steps that led to the
unfinished room where Bruce's last belongings sat hidden away
among other discarded treasures. I thought about the first time
I saw him. He had finished basic training. His light brown hair
was acquiring length and the pipe he smoked indicated a deeper
maturity than did the teenage whiskers on his face. I held his
things to my heart and cried the tears of a lost young girl.
The single light bulb hanging from the bare wooden
rafters in the center of the room was the only electrical light
source. The gray cement walls and floor kept the room cool and
dark.
The dampness and musty smell signaled that no one
actually lived in this part of the house.
In the early 1970’s the most horrible reality
slapped me in the face. While holding the light green shirt he
wore after our wedding I awoke to the fact that Bruce was not
ever going to come home. No matter how many tears I shed or how
hard I prayed, my sweet Bruce would never be back. More of my
heart died that day. As the finality of death made it’s appearance,
I took another dip into the hollow darkness and advanced further
into the shadows of despair.
My wounded self continued to roam more desperately,
searching for a reason to live and a place to belong.
In the 1980’s I periodically tried to convince
myself that I was “letting go” and began to give his
things away. I started moving the remainder of his possessions
with me, keeping the bulky box near but out of sight.
In 1991 I was looking for reasons my life continued
to crumble even after my greatest efforts to find peace and happiness.
My subconscious must have been trying to tell me the answer all
along. The sacred memories locked in my heart stirred as my weary
body sit next to the worn-down box on the ‘60’s orange,
shag carpet in my bedroom.
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